


Obsolete

by Wecanhaveallthree



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 15:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wecanhaveallthree/pseuds/Wecanhaveallthree
Summary: A Space Marine confronts his mortality and his place in the Chapter, now that the Primaris have established themselves.





	Obsolete

**OBSOLETE**

_”Only war.”_

* * *

The battle was going poorly.

To be truthful, calling it a battle rather than the massacre was simply a salve for injured pride. ‘Battle’ implies that they had mounted some meaningful resistance, that there was some equity or parity between the opposing forces - there was nothing like that on the errant moon of Kybal.

Thought hidden by refractor shields and the unique gravitational anomalies of the system itself, the relic-repository had evaded all manner of foe. Tyranid splinter fleets had passed it by, Drukkhari raiding parties had shied away, and no Ork had considered the muddy spheroid worth taking a closer look at. Perhaps that had resulted in some kind of complacency on behalf of the defenders. Perhaps one of their number had been turned, or an error had been made, or the technology had simply degraded from peak effectiveness.

Peyari blink-clicked the smattering of damage reports away. He was conscious of why he had called them up in the first place: perusing them distracted his transhuman mind from stark reality.

The flat red runes that indicated the ceased vitals of his squad. The howling breach tocsins. The distressing length of time his armour had recorded him as unconscious. He clucked his tongue and assigned severe penitence cycles for conduct unbecoming. An absurd disassociation.

It dimmed the searing pain of his crushed legs somewhat. He had stood at the very gate of the refectory and denied the Archenemy their entrance. Proud in his silver plate, reflected a thousand times in the mirrored walkway, contrasting against the shabby, dented, wartorn Terminator he faced. The Traitor had a crackling thunder hammer and impenetrable storm-shield, blackened by fire and scored by mass-reactives, fronted by a brassy eight-pointed star.

Peyari had been armed with a chapbook and his wits - poor weapons under any circumstances.

* * *

“Hile,” Peyari had said in the manner of his Chapter, “The Refectory is not open to visitors. Turn back.”

There was a refuge in absurdity. An impossibly thin barrier between him and hard truth. Death was stomped down the gallery towards him, and at times like this, it was very difficult to live up to the Emperor’s ancient expectations. They shall know no fear, yes, but a little existential dread felt very appropriate.

“Hile,” the Terminator had replied, raising his hammer in mocking salute. “Flee or die.”

“Alas, my duty cycle does not end for several hours yet.”

A vox-blurt that might have been laughter. “Death it is, then.”

Peyari had fought, of course. It would have been the height of foolishness to simply wait for his slayer to walk up and dispose of him. Every second he bought meant, possibly, the further evacuation of precious relics, knowledge, serfs and researchers. The monastery could not survive without them. It would not even notice the passing of Peyari.

He had thrown his chapbook into the Terminator’s grille, hoping to at least foul the receiver port with ancient philosophy, or give the Traitor a taste of Chapter scribe-ritual. It had done nothing. There was no room to move in the mirrored passage, entirely nullifying the advantage power armour had over bulkier Terminator plate.

Nobody was more surprised than Peyari when he evaded the lumbering Terminator’s crushing overhand swing. Servoes screaming in protest as they were forced beyond tolerances, he had become a silhouette of quicksilver with a dashing sidestep. He had just enough time to admire his excellent form in the mirrors before the Terminator’s stormshield slammed down in a return motion, breaking every bone below Peyari’s thighs.

It had been the most wretched agony - the pain, yes, but also the understanding he would not die on his feet as his traitorous limbs collapsed beneath him. In uncountable fractal repeats, the vast plated knee rose to meet the Marine’s faceplate and, mercifully, shattered consciousness.

* * *

The sharp crack of weapons fire brought Peyari out of the comforting foam of a healing coma. Larraman cells and other biological marvels were working hard to prevent him from bleeding out in a miserable puddle on the decking, but they were not gentle ministrations. The pain, both physical and psychological, was hideously acute. He bit down hard. The Terminator was likely nearby, plundering the refectory. He would not give the Archenemy the pleasure of hearing him scream.

Who, then, had been shooting? Peyari’s auto-senses were dulled by shock, and blood loss, and pain, and worse. His normally photographic memory with its causal linkages could not place the strange sound.

Something was darkening the mirrors. His vision fogged, doubled - a trick of perspective or a result of the debilitating blow, it was impossible to say.

The Terminator was being forced back, shield up, his dark armour glistening with embedded shards of crystal. He was bellowing some prayer, or combat rite, or aspersions upon his attacker’s parentage in some garbled language that hurt to hear. The unseen weapons continued to whicker, the glancing ammunition embedding into the mirrors and cracking them into infinitely refractive spiderwebs.

Peyari felt the sudden dip of pressure before the Warp nimbus appeared, and was glad that his helm remained intact - saving his hearing, and likely his teeth - as the Terminator disappeared in a flare of energy and decompressed air.

Gone. But not for long. They had come to claim a prize and were willing to take their time to do so.

He did not hear the footsteps of his supposed saviours - they were swallowed by the hard rasp of Gravis armour boots, or else, beyond even his range of hearing. Blearily, Peyari attempted to at least raise his body, but the pain in his lower legs redoubled and forced him back down as surely as a piledriver. With numb fingers, he fumbled at his helm seals, praying that they hadn’t warped.

Other hands brushed his away, and in a moment, the stink of ozone, blood and stale eye reached him. Peyari pulled the deformed headpiece off and let it fall, clattering. He stole a glance one of the few intact mirrors and grimaced - his head hadn’t cracked like an egg, but it would be some time before he was handsome again.

“Throne of Terra, you’re a mess.” An unfamiliar voice. One of the newcomers, the Primaris - a Lieutenant. He wasn’t familiar with them: they rarely came to the refectory.

Peyari choked back several choice, curt replies. “Help me up, damn you. We need to fortify the position. We need-”

He caught a flicker of movement behind the lieutenant’s armoured form - hooded, alien figures. Familiar ones. They _did_ come to the refectory. His defenders.

The Ynnari. Bleak runes stood out on their cloaks, their alien hands gripping strange, long-barrelled weapons. Splinter rifles, favourite torment of Drukkhari, the jagged crystal shards coated in toxins potent enough to bring down even a Space Marine garbed in Terminator plate. No wonder the traitorous Marine had chosen the better part of valour: if a single splinter found its way through his defences, his death would be a long agony.

“We _need_ to go,” said the lieutenant, flexing one gauntlet to test the range of movement against battle damage. “This position is untenable, and the Archenemy is here in force.”

It was like that, then. Very well. Peyari had resigned himself to death as soon as the Terminator had appeared. Truthfully, he had known it from the moment he had awoken on a cold slab stuffed with strange organs and controlling an awkward, powerful body. Like a child-giant from the fairytales and just as doomed.

“Go, then,” he sighed. “The Spear of Tein Olan would be best, and the banner of Six Spires. There is a vault below the lectern that contains the First Company honour roll-”

“Peyari-”

“-certainly will need to take the Redhawk bolter, it is a-”

“Peyari.”

He broke off and stared up at the lieutenant’s impassive helm. It gave nothing away.

“Forget them, Peyari. You’re relic enough. We’re taking you.”

The anger welled up from a reservoir he did not know he had. If the lieutenant had been any closer, he’d have - he’d have - what? Throttled the man’s shins? Chewed off his toes? Still, it was an affront. The refectory, the monastery, all of it - the history of the Chapter - it was worth far more than any one Marine. These Primaris were fools, all.

Stronger fools. Faster fools. Tougher, better-equipped, oddly resistant, iron-willed fools. What was he in comparison? Old. Weak. Full of stories without meaning, traditions worth even less than that. The Chapter was changing before him.

Better this way. Better it go on with things it could use - weapons, armour, maps, blood-oaths. Better than the chaff be cleared away. The Codex Astartes permitted only a thousand Marines in the Chapter. Peyari’s very existence occupied a space that could otherwise be a fit, capable warrior. There was a word for what he was.

Obsolete. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he turned his face away so they would not be seen.

“He is raving. Can you not summon an apothecary?’ whispered one of the Aeldari to the lieutenant. “He _is_ the apothecary,” replied the Primaris commander, and added in a slightly louder voice, “And we’d be far worse off without him. Please, Peyari, enough time has been wasted. We need to go.”

But he could not let the thoughts go so easily. Even in the face of simple salvation. “But the relics-” he began, and this time, the Aeldari cut him off with an exasperated noise.

“Monkeigh, you understand not,” it spoke in heavily accented Gothic. “They are just _things_. There are others, yes? Other legacies, other champions, other relics. You are a librarian, history-keeper, so - the records-of-honour live on in you. Thus. Worth more than things. Chaos can _take_ things. But cannot take words, yes? Cannot take history.” A grim smile, under the hood. “This, we Aeldari know.”

The lieutenant nodded once, curtly. “Wisdom from the xeno, Peyari. We need you. I know you see us as - outsiders, trespassers - but we cannot learn if you aren’t there to teach us the Chapter’s ways. We can’t carry on the legacy, because it resides in you. Would you have us lift a spear, and know nothing of it? Fire a bolter that is foreign to us?”

Sound arguments. He knew, because they were ones that he had instilled in novitiates for many years. All those who passed through the Chapter’s far-flung monastery learned at Peyari’s lessons, of oratory and debate and elucidation.

He had helped so many young, lost warriors find their way, find their _purpose_ within the Chapter. He had spoken earnestly with champions and heroes. He had out-drunk legends. He had arm-wrestled myths. And if it was that simple - if what made a weapon holy was only that it had been touched by someone worthy - why, did that not make Peyari a relic himself? A relic thousandfold?

Absurd. But a refuge, from the ills and ailments and darkness of mind. Uneasy philosophical ground, but ground nonetheless to dig in his heels and push back the demons of doubt.

“You’ll have to carry me, brother.”

“It would be an honour to shoulder your burden, learned one.”

“Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.” Peyari scowled, then reached out to take the lieutenant’s proffered arm. The pain was terrible, the shattered bones unsettling themselves like a jumble of needles within his skin. But he would not cry out. He would not give voice to his pain. “I fear I will no longer be beautiful after this.”

“You’ll make a handsome dreadnought, learned one.”

Laughing did, indeed, hurt. But it was a good pain.

The pain of living. The pain of understanding. The pain of belonging.


End file.
